


Things Truly Wicked (start from an innocence remix)

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock curls his lip into a sneer he practised in the mirror.  "You said we weren't like other people.  <i>You</i> told me to avoid <i>sentiment</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Truly Wicked (start from an innocence remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Things Truly Wicked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/373089) by [kirstenlouise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirstenlouise/pseuds/kirstenlouise). 



> Written for Sherlock Remix 2013.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft shuts the door to the parlour behind him. "What did you want?"

Sherlock made sure to sit on the sofa, where he and Mycroft always sit during the afternoon tea ritual with Mummy. He might have taken Mummy's chair, which has a view of the door; the implication would not have gone unnoticed to Mycroft. But Sherlock didn't want Mycroft unbalanced just yet.

Mycroft is still standing by the door, hands tucked casually into his pockets. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt at the station, with a sleeveless jumper over it and a long coat over that, the very image of a fussy Oxbridge scholar determined to go far, but he's changed since into a polo shirt and chinos. He's gained weight, and he's let his hair grow a little long, fashionable but well-groomed. He looks like a prat. 

"You have a lover," says Sherlock.

Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up, but that's the only outward sign of his surprise. University has made him much better at hiding his reactions--from Sherlock, too. "I--well, yes. What of it?"

"Lapel pin," says Sherlock, even though Mycroft didn't ask how he knew. Mycroft never asks; he knows how and why Sherlock knows, because they are both brilliant. "On your coat. I noticed it at the station."

A gaudy brooch, really, of some kind of great cat, with black gems for spots on its coat and green gems for eyes. Probably came from a high street shop. Not Mycroft's thing at all; Mycroft's taste does not run towards trinkets, aside from the occasional pair of tasteful cufflinks. A gift, then, but not a gift from just anyone: Mycroft wouldn't wear such a terrible, ill-suited bauble unless it was a gift from a lover, pinned on at the station and smiled over. Mycroft probably sat on the train and touched it with his fingers, eyes distant, a vague, silly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Mummy isn't observant, at least not anymore, but Sherlock noticed, because he notices everything.

"Yes, I thought you would," Mycroft says, as if it were nothing at all. He sits next to Sherlock at last. His easy manner at being caught out makes Sherlock furious. He wants Mycroft to be uncomfortable, to sweat a little, but Mycroft still looks at him like he's a little boy, even though he's nearly thirteen. "Problem?"

Sherlock curls his lip into a sneer he practised in the mirror. "You said we weren't like other people. _You_ told me to avoid _sentiment_."

Mycroft heaves a world-weary sigh. Sherlock hates that, too. He hates everything about Mycroft, these days: how he was home for only a few days last Christmas holidays; how Mycroft called a great deal at first, and always asked to speak to Sherlock, but now, in his second year, he doesn't call even once a week; how Mycroft looks more like their father and takes Mummy's side more often, these days. His letters home--those, at least, are still regular--are filled with names that Sherlock doesn't know, and stories that he wasn't there to share in.

"Yes, I did say that," says Mycroft. "And it's still true. But you see, certain sacrifices must be made to secure a good position in the future..."

More and more of Mycroft's words these days have to do with _the future_ , a future that's going to take him to London, to do the big boring things that are so damned important to him. And now _this_.

Well, Sherlock is going to show him. He sticks his hand into Mycroft's lap, fingers splaying over his crotch.

Mycroft freezes just before bursting into a frenzy of motion and flapping fabric, scooting until he's pressed up against the arm of the sofa, his eyes wide. The expression is comical, but Sherlock doesn't laugh. "Sherlock! What--"

Sherlock puts on his best Mycroft imitation, eyebrows drawn and voice stern. He wishes his voice were deeper. "Trousers down. I trust you're capable of doing it yourself."

Mycroft pales. His jaw goes slack. "What--"

"I can help you, if you want." Sherlock's hands go towards Mycroft's belt, but Mycroft slaps them away, as if Sherlock just tried to shove his hand in the fireplace.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft is grey and shaking, fine tremors down his skin making his fingers tremble. "What are you--"

"What does it look like?" Sherlock hisses. "Now take down your trousers, or I'll do it for you."

"What--I'm--I'm not--" Mycroft opens and closes his mouth several times and pushes himself up unsteadily, half on his feet. "Why--what--"

Sherlock's hands go back on his own thighs. He makes his voice level and calm, as if Mummy's scolding him again. "If you don't, I'll tell Mummy that you raped me. That you've _been_ raping me. For years."

Mycroft freezes. 

"The most commonly reported form of sibling incest is older sibling on younger sibling." Sherlock doesn't move his hands. He recites the facts, back straight, without taking his eyes away from Mycroft's increasingly distraught expression. "Absence of the father is usually a significant factor."

Mycroft gapes at Sherlock. It's an unattractive look on him, but Sherlock relishes having put it there. "You wouldn't," he chokes out, but even as he says that Sherlock smiles in triumph. He pushes Mycroft back onto the sofa and puts his hand on Mycroft's belt. Undoing it backwards is a lot trickier than he thought it would be, but he doesn't let his frustration show.

"Who do you think she'd believe?" Sherlock says, as he slips the tongue of the belt free from the buckle and unbuttons Mycroft's trousers next. Mycroft remains frozen. "The scared little boy or his big brother, the Oxford scholar? Oh, but you wouldn't _be_ an Oxford scholar anymore, would you, if that got out? Oh, no." He pitches his voice low and sobbing. "He made me, Mummy. He hurt me. He said if I told, he'd only hurt me more. Oh, Mummy, I was so scared."

"Stop it," Mycroft chokes out. "I'd never--"

"Liar!" Sherlock has Mycroft's penis in his hands by now. It's small and pink and soft and fits in Sherlock's hand. He strokes the foreskin, retracting it over the shiny pink head of Mycroft's cock. Sherlock wonders if his own will look like that, when he's bigger.

"Please don't," Mycroft whispers, from somewhere just out of Sherlock's view.

Sherlock looks up. Mycroft's head lolls against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed. The corners of his mouth are turned down, and his brow is a maze of unhappy wrinkles. Sherlock clenches his jaw and squeezes Mycroft's penis. Mycroft's eyes fly open with a little cry.

"Look at me," Sherlock demands. "I want you to _look at me_. You're not going to pretend it's someone else doing this to you. It's me, yes, it's _your brother_."

"Ah!" Mycroft's eyes are wide, his pupils blown, his lips trembling; Sherlock presses his fingers to Mycroft's femoral artery and feels his pulse drumming away. His big brother is afraid or aroused or both, and that's enough to send Sherlock's head spinning. He spits into his hand and closes it around Mycroft's shaft and starts a series of pulls, trying to make Mycroft hard.

"Oh God, don't do this!" Mycroft bursts out, bringing both hands up to his face.

"Quiet," Sherlock orders. "Do you want someone to hear you? You'd better hurry up, by the way," he adds. "The servants will be along to lay tea in, oh, maybe 20 minutes. Or 15? I haven't exactly been keeping track of time, you know. I don't suppose you locked the door behind you?"

Mycroft whimpers and crushes the heel of his hand against his teeth. Sherlock lets him; he doesn't really have any desire for one of the servants to come looking to see what all the fuss is about, and Mycroft hasn't taken his eyes away. Besides, Mycroft is starting to get hard, and that's exciting. He's getting longer, the foreskin retracting on its own. Sherlock swipes his thumb over the head, smoothing the precome over the shaft. It doesn't do much to make the glide easier, so he pauses to spit into his hand again.

After another minute or so, with no sound except for Mycroft's panicked breathing and the thick slap of skin on skin, Sherlock says, "You'd better hurry up. This is getting boring."

"I can't," Mycroft croaks.

Sherlock tilts his head to one side, in what he knows very well is a childish pose of deep thought. He pouts out his bottom lip. It sends a fresh wave of trembling through Mycroft's body. "I can use my mouth."

"No! No." Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut but hurriedly opens them against before Sherlock can force his attention back. "Please don't."

"Then you need to come." Sherlock switches to his other hand. "All right, how about this: I've changed my mind, you can close your eyes. Think of someone else doing this to you. It doesn't matter, since when you open your eyes, it'll still be me. Nothing you can do about that."

Mycroft groans, and his head thuds against the back of the sofa. He does close his eyes. His adam's apple bobs frenetically as he swallows. Sherlock watches with fascination as the blotchy red on his brother's face spreads down his neck; as Mycroft's breathing changes and grows more laboured; as his hips begin to shift and hitch. Strange and fascinating, how the human male body feels compelled to thrust, even when there's nothing to thrust into, even when there's no ovum for the seed to invade. Mycroft's penis oozes more freely now, a sign of increasing arousal--and hopefully impending ejaculation, because this _is_ getting a bit tedious. Sherlock didn't think it would take this long.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock wonders. "Are you thinking about your lover, back at uni? Does he do this to you? No, I bet he doesn't, I bet you let him use his mouth. I bet you let him use your arse. I bet he bums you."

"Shut up!" Mycroft grinds out through his teeth. "If you really want this to be over then you need to _shut up_."

Sherlock subsides. 

After another minute, Mycroft's breaths are coming high and thready, like he's on the verge of a panic attack. That must mean he's close. "Come _on_ ," Sherlock mutters, and finally he's had enough. He bends down and takes just the head of his brother's penis into his mouth.

That's apparently enough, because Mycroft gives another shocked little cry and then his breath freezes altogether. Something foul and salty lands on Sherlock's tongue, and he sputters and launches himself away so fast that he almost topples off the sofa altogether. The rest of the mess lands on Mycroft's trousers, and a bit on the cushion. Mycroft sags back against the sofa arm, head bowed, while Sherlock spits and sputters. "God, that was foul! Does it always taste like that?"

Mycroft doesn't answer. He's slumped and shaking, head bowed, one hand over his face. Sherlock straightens and tosses his head. "Well?"

"Get out," Mycroft says through his fingers.

That was not the expected response. Sherlock puzzles over it for a moment before concluding that, well, he _did_ just wound Mycroft's pride, and Mycroft is going to want a moment to recover. But... "You're going to have to go back to your room to change, anyhow," he points out. "Can't have tea with Mummy looking like _that_. It makes much more sense for _you_ to leave."

" _Get out!_ " Mycroft roars, pounding his other hand against the back of the sofa, though he still doesn't look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's feet move him despite a cerebral knowledge that, in this moment, Mycroft has no power over him. He tells himself that acceding to this one request does not make him the loser, since he still has the upper hand overall, and Mycroft is clearly not going to move right now. But he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"I win," he says, looking over his shoulder. Mycroft twitches. "You'll never forget. Every time someone touches you, you'll remember me. I'll always be the more important."

Mycroft doesn't reply, but his shoulders begin to shake. 

"Better turn the cushion over, or Mummy will see," Sherlock says, and lets himself out of the parlour with a smile.


End file.
